


repossession

by meios



Series: ave satanas! [2]
Category: SEVENTEEN (Band)
Genre: Biting, Contracts, Familiars, Lowercase, M/M, demon!jun, witch!minghao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-11 22:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16861207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meios/pseuds/meios
Summary: he seals deals with a kiss.





	repossession

**Author's Note:**

> surprise it's a series within a series

“that’s not how contracts are made,” minghao objects, and his arms are crossed over his chest. they haven’t moved in the last fifteen minutes, neither he nor the demon, and the only sound over his own breathing is claws on the wood floor and his cat, his _familiar_ , purring up a storm in the vicinity of the aforementioned demon. he forces a straight face, allowing nothing to betray the frustration with his life he is currently experiencing; his bedroom is dark and the candles are low.

 

the demon named junhui can only smile his little smile, where it curls at the edges like a cheshire cat’s, the glint of sharp shark’s teeth appearing and then blink, it’s gone again. he’s floating upside down now, all bones and flawless skin like canvases. “that’s how i make them,” he says quietly.

 

minghao says, “there are _rules_.”

 

“says who?”

 

and when minghao gestures to his books, to the scrolls he’s spent so much on, to all of the notes he’s taken and refined over the years with help from others, that laugh sounds again and it grows a little louder when the witch flinches a bit. “and who wrote all that, dearest?” junhui purrs.

 

minghao glares.

 

junhui leans down, righting himself again, and he is alighted only by the flames of the candles, sending his flesh into colors. “ _humans_ ,” he whispers. and minghao knows he’s right, god _damn_ it, he’s _right_ , but he knows better than to voice such an admission. his pursed lips thin, but that is all, and when junhui moves away, he takes away the scent of cloves and cinnamon that had followed his distance. it seems intoxicating, addictive; minghao wills himself not to breathe too deeply.

 

in his notes, somewhere in his piles of papers and files upon files on his computer, he can recall the details of this creature: the titles of _prince_ and _executor_ rolling through like thick clouds, a promise of death to enemies, love to come to the conjurer, of divine and dark knowledges. he remembers a vague mention of treasure, of necromancy. his mouth dries, though he forces himself to swallow around the lump in his throat.

 

his familiar, the cat, drowses in his desk chair, right on top of his freshly laundered clothes.

 

“our terms,” he begins, “they can change so long as the promises are kept. you’ll follow the same rules he followed.”

 

junhui smirks. “i knew you’d see it my way.”

 

and before minghao can respond, dare to even think of saying anything else, junhui is swallowing any protest of his whole; he devours the entirety of minghao’s mouth, savoring it like a child to candy. and upon ripping himself away, panting and flushed, he reaches up to wipe his face, winces at the sudden pain around his upon lip; he finds crimson on his hand, a deep bite mark the culprit.

 

minghao swears, “you asshole.”

 

“ _your_ asshole now.”


End file.
